The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl

by Theodora Goss

  “One of the mesmerists you found told you about me?” said Alice. It could only be Martin. Had he betrayed her? She had thought of him as a friend and teacher!

  “Yes, Marvin I think his name was. A circus performer of some sort.” Helen’s voice was scornful. “These mesmerists are poor specimens—of all the so-called practitioners of mesmerism we found in London, only five of them proved to have any mesmerical abilities at all. This Marvin was the most powerful, and he said he knew of one more powerful than he was, a young girl with significant natural abilities although little training. Of course he did not know what we wanted mesmerists for—he thought we were putting on a show of some sort—The Wonders of Mesmerism!”

  “Where are these mesmerists now?” asked Alice. “You haven’t hurt them, have you?” At least, if Martin had betrayed her, he hadn’t known he was doing it!

  “No, we may have some use for them later. They are being, shall we say, stored where they cannot escape, under the watchful eye of the man who found them for us—a mountebank showman who calls himself Professor Petronius.” Helen pushed her chair away from the table. “That’s enough questions. I have important work to do, as does Margaret. All right, child, we’ll do this her way—find your room, stay there, and don’t get into trouble!”

  BEATRICE: Oh, that Professor Petronius! I wish I had never seen or heard of him again, after the way he treated me. But I am glad that, during our battle in Southwark, I was able to—

  CATHERINE: Oh no, you don’t! All of you did this in the last book as well. I warned you about it then, and I’m warning you again now. No discussing important events before we actually get to them!

  Alice waited a while in her room before sneaking out. It wasn’t really sneaking, was it? She had permission now to roam around the house. But she did not want to run into Moriarty or any of the other men. She was frightened enough of them without her mother’s warning.

  There was no one in the hall, so she tried the door to the room where Sherlock Holmes was being held. It was locked. Once again she wished that she could open locks like Diana.

  DIANA: You see? You never want me until you do, and then if I’m not there, you’re stuck!

  What else could she do? Whatever drug he was being given would likely be kept in his room—or would it? Not if they wanted to keep it away from him. Then where? The bathroom! She walked back down to the end of the hall, to the room in which she had taken her bath. Yes, it contained a cabinet. In it were all the usual things one found in bathrooms: Dr. Lyon’s Tooth Powder, Lloyd’s Cocaine Toothache Drops, Dalton’s Nerve Tonic, Bruceline Hair Restorer—that must be for Moriarty, whose hairline was certainly receding! Tweezers, a pair of small scissors, a mustache comb. What was that on the top shelf? A brown bottle—yes, it was marked BAYER HEROIN HYDROCHLORIDE. She unscrewed the top—sure enough, the bottle was half full of white powder. Next to it was a leather case. Alice took it down and opened it—there was the hypodermic. Presumably whoever gave him the drug mixed it with water in some sort of vessel—the tooth glass? Could she perhaps hide the bottle? No, another could easily be purchased at the nearest apothecary. Then could she dilute it somehow? What would be safe to substitute? She tried to remember what Mrs. Poole had taught her. A woman is the nurse and doctor of her household, Mrs. Poole had said. Whether as wife, mother, or housekeeper, she should know how to treat an injury or illness. You never know when a doctor may be unavailable, or not arrive in time. All right, Alice, if a child had jaundice, what would you give him? What would Mrs. Poole do in this case?

  Salt. She could substitute salt, which should be indistinguishable from the powdered heroin. In water, it would make an ordinary saline solution. And where could she find salt? In the kitchen, of course. She would have to go downstairs and brave the Mandelbaums.

  She returned the hypodermic case to the cabinet, exactly as she had found it, and screwed the top securely back onto the bottle of heroin. Then she walked along the hall as quietly and inconspicuously as she had been taught a maid should walk. How useful her training turned out to be in these difficult circumstances!

  It was early afternoon. The headquarters of the English branch of the Alchemical Society—and now the Order of the Golden Dawn—was quiet and empty. On the second floor, she heard someone snoring in one of the rooms. On the ground floor, two male voices were quarreling behind a closed door. She put her ear to the keyhole for a moment as she passed, but could not make out what they were quarreling about.

  She walked down the back stairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Mandelbaum was at the large black range, while Gitla was seated at a central table, peeling potatoes. Presumably for dinner? Clearly, no one had thought about Alice’s lunch! Well, she was glad to be forgotten for a while. When they saw her, Gitla stood up and curtseyed, and Mrs. Mandelbaum, managing to look both friendly and apologetic at once, waved her in. “Niech Panna usiądzie,” she said, then put a plate of small pastries in front of Alice. They were the same kind that had been served the day before in the common room, when Moriarty had held his ridiculous meeting. The memory of that meeting still frightened Alice—she did not want to think about it. But her mouth began to water as soon as she saw the pastries. She must be hungry after all.

  As she ate, she watched the Mandelbaums, mother and daughter, work. It felt strange to be sitting idly and not peeling potatoes herself. She almost offered to help Gitla, then reminded herself that, first, Gitla would not understand her, and second, she was supposed to be Lydia Raymond now, not Alice the kitchen maid. Mrs. Mandelbaum took a pot off the stove and poured a dark brown liquid into a cup—ah, she had made coffee, and Alice had not even noticed! Her attention had been on those potatoes. Surely any minute now she would have the opportunity she was waiting for.…

  Mrs. Mandelbaum added milk and sugar, then put the coffee cup on a saucer in front of her. Alice sipped it cautiously. In the Jekyll household, coffee had always been for visitors—she and Mrs. Poole had drunk good English tea. It was better than she expected, although very strong, despite the milk and sugar Mrs. Mandelbaum had added to it.

  “Thank you,” she said, not sure if Mrs. Mandelbaum would understand, but the housekeeper smiled and nodded. She seemed relieved not to be bringing Alice dry bread and water in a coal cellar! She still had a frightened look about her—as well she might, living in such a household! But she seemed a little more at ease than the last time Alice had been in this kitchen.

  Gitla rinsed the potatoes, then salted them from a large salt shaker—a kitchen salt shaker, not one of the dainty silver shakers that sat on dinner tables. Was it too large? Alice was not sure. She hoped to goodness that her apron pocket would be large enough! It was such a silly apron, useless for any real work. Real aprons had two deep pockets, not this single ornamental one—but it would have to do. This was the moment.… Oh, how she hated to do this! All her training under Mrs. Poole rose up against the thought. But quickly, before she could think twice, she stood with the coffee cup and saucer in her hands, as though about to give them to Mrs. Mandelbaum. Suddenly, she tripped over nothing at all and stumbled forward. The cup and saucer dropped from her hands and crashed on the tiles. Pastry crumbs scattered, and drops of coffee spattered all over the place. Porcelain fragments flew through the air, littering the kitchen floor.

  Alice gave a little scream, then raised her hands to her mouth and burst into tears. Truth to tell, she had wanted to cry all morning, although not perhaps as torrentially as the day before. This time, it had nothing to do with being a captive. Could it have to with what had happened at breakfast—when her mother had described leaving her at the orphanage? But what good would crying have done? Mary would not have cried, so she had tried not to, and had succeeded admirably. Now, as though a dam had burst, all those tears spilled out. Now they would serve her well—now she could cry.

  Mrs. Mandelbaum said something she could not understand, no doubt telling her that it was all right, that she should not cry over broken dishes. Gitla sprang up and wen
t to fetch a broom and dustpan. As soon as Mrs. Mandelbaum turned around, searching for something or other, Alice slipped the saltcellar into her apron pocket. Yes, the pocket was just large enough. In a moment, Mrs. Mandelbaum had handed her a clean dishcloth to cry into, and Gitla had returned to sweep up the mess. Alice stayed in the kitchen just long enough to finish crying convincingly, then thanked them and, still wiping her eyes, made her way out into the hall. Now to get back upstairs to the bathroom!

  But wait, what was that? She could smell tobacco.… It was coming from the window at the end of the hall. Like all the other windows on the basement level, it was set high up in the wall and shaped like a half moon. One of the panes was open. Could that be one of Moriarty’s guards smoking? Through the window, she could see—no, it could not be—but yes, it was. The back of a pair of bare, scrawny, bowed legs. They were covered with dirt.

  Quickly and quietly, she walked to the window. “Pssst! Over here!” she whispered. She was taking a chance—but one had to take chances in life, didn’t one? At least that’s what Catherine was always saying.

  Suddenly, the legs bent at the knees and knelt down. A startled and very dirty face appeared at the window. It was, as she had guessed, a boy about her own age, smoking a forbidden gasper.

  “Cor blimey!” he said. “You nearly scared the life out of me, you did!”

  “Be careful,” she said in as low a voice as she could. Mrs. Mandelbaum and Gitla were all the way down the hall in the kitchen, but she did not want them to hear. “There are guards around the house. How did you get past them?”

  “Oh, there are only two of them, and they’re playing poker. It’s not them I’m worried about. You’re not going to tell Mum that you saw me smoking, are you? She’ll wallop me if she finds out!”

  “Of course not,” said Alice. “I’m not a rat. How would you like some more of those, and better? Gentlemen’s cigarettes. I’ll make sure you get them if you do something for me.”

  “And what’s that?” He looked at her suspiciously. As well he might—girls dressed as well as Lydia Raymond did not consort with the likes of him, or offer cigarettes for doing them favors! But I’m not Lydia Raymond, thought Alice. I’m a Londoner born and bred, and I know a thing or two.

  “Do you know where to find the Baker Street boys?”

  “Of course. Every chap in these parts knows about them! I’d like to be one myself, if Wiggins would take me. But you don’t get to be a Baker Street boy just for the asking. They’re very particular who they associate with, if you know what I mean.”

  “Can you get them a message for me? Tell them that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is being held prisoner in this house. He’s being drugged with heroin so he won’t escape. Tell them that Alice, Mary Jekyll’s kitchen maid, sent you. Can you remember all that?” If he could tell the Baker Street boys, they could get a message to Dr. Watson, perhaps even Inspector Lestrade. And they would come to the rescue—or, at least, she hoped they would.

  “Blimey! Mr. Holmes himself? This is like one of those Boy’s Own adventure stories. I’ll ask to see Wiggins himself.…”

  “Yes, but get going, and don’t let the guards see you,” she said, impatiently.

  “Right. I’m off!” He ground out the gasper under one boot heel, and for a moment she could see his bare legs running away. Then he was gone.

  For a moment, she was tempted to run away herself. If the guards really were playing poker… But her mother had said she would be able to tell if Alice tried to leave, and Alice believed her. She was much more afraid of her mother than of the guards! And anyway, she still needed to adulterate the heroin. If she poured it down the sink and substituted the salt, whoever injected the drug into Mr. Holmes’s veins would be injecting harmless salt water. He would, slowly but surely, recover from the drug—wouldn’t he? Besides, she couldn’t leave while there was a threat to Her Majesty. It was Alice’s duty as an Englishwoman to stay and do her best in this situation, whatever the result.

  As quietly as she could, since she did not want to attract the Mandelbaums’ attention, Alice made her way back along the corridor. Would her message reach the Baker Street boys? Would Dr. Watson come to rescue Mr. Holmes—and her? Would he arrive in time? She had no idea. As she climbed back up to the second floor, where the great detective lay drugged and inaccessible, she hoped against hope that someone would come to save her and Mr. Holmes—soon.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Ayesha’s Story

  Why in the world did you bring Clarence?” Catherine whispered to Beatrice. They were standing outside the door of Ayesha’s office in the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. She hoped he could not hear her—he was speaking to Frau Gottleib about something or other.

  “He asked to meet Ayesha,” said Beatrice, raising one hand in a gesture of helplessness. The other was holding the sort of portfolio used by legal clerks. “If I had said no, it would have seemed—strange, would it not? What reason could I have for refusing him? And she said that she would like to meet him, after I mentioned that we were having a meal together at the Centrál Kávéház.”

  “No reason, other than the fact that she’s inhumanly beautiful, and can tell him what life was like in ancient Egypt based on personal experience. And that you don’t want him falling in love with her, the way all sorts of men—and probably women—seem to.”

  “You are not being helpful!” whispered Beatrice.

  Just then, the door opened. “Come in,” said Leo Vincey. He sounded as sour and unwelcoming as ever. He still had four red scars on his face where Lucinda had scratched him, but they seemed to be healing well. He obviously did not like Catherine—and she did not particularly like him either. But he could at least be courteous! She and Mary had warned him and Professor Holly about Van Helsing’s attack on the Alchemical Society, and he had not listened. Ayesha was probably angry with him, which was not Catherine’s fault. It was easier for him to dislike her than to blame himself—she could understand that. It was just human nature—cats were so much more rational!

  Ayesha’s office looked exactly the same as the last time they had been here—the wooden desk, now with papers scattered over it, the plain wooden chairs, the shelves with back issues of the Journal de Société des Alchimistes. It was a utilitarian space, although behind Ayesha, who was seated at the desk, Catherine could see a magnificent view of the Danube and the Buda hills.

  She rose when they entered. “Hello, Beatrice. And Catherine—it’s a pleasure to see you again. Do come in.” Today she was looking her usual self, which was unfortunate for Beatrice. But surely if anyone could resist Ayesha’s charms, it would be Clarence! Ayesha was dressed in the same dress she had worn for the opening ceremony of the Alchemical Society meeting, a cloth of gold gown that Beatrice had identified as a House of Worth model from the fall collection, whatever that meant—Catherine did not speak Fashion. She was tall, as tall as Clarence, and her hair hung down in a hundred black braids. Her eyes were outlined with kohl. Also in the room with her, sitting around a table with documents piled on it, were Professor Horace Holly and Kati, Count Dracula’s former parlor maid. Kati smiled and nodded at them. Professor Holly scowled, but that seemed to be his usual expression—indeed, he was scowling in a more welcoming way than usual.

  “We were just sorting through the latest submissions to the journal of the society,” said Ayesha. “Many of the members bring their submissions directly to the meeting to save on mailing costs. Have you come for any particular reason, or merely to visit?” Although her voice was gracious, they were clearly interrupting.

  “I’ve brought the research protocols for the committee,” said Beatrice. She held out the portfolio she had been carrying. So that was what she had been so laboriously typing in Mina’s study! “They contain the criteria for our approval of research in biological transmutation. Frau Gottleib thought it would be best if we made the criteria explicit, so alchemists who wished to perform such research could know ahead of time what the committee required
for approval.”

  “Did she indeed?” Ayesha looked at Frau Gottleib skeptically.

  “You appointed me chairwoman of the committee,” said Frau Gottleib in her heavy German accent. “Did you expect me not to take that role seriously? Beatrice came up with some excellent proposals. You know I always believed in curtailing—or at least controlling—those experiments.”

  Ayesha opened the portfolio, took out a sheaf of closely typewritten papers, and rifled through them. She shook her head and sighed. “You modern young people, with your scruples! But who is this?” She looked at Clarence.

  “Clarence Jefferson, ma’am, at your service.” He bowed.

  “I don’t need your service at present, Mr. Jefferson,” she said crisply. “But if and when I do, I shall certainly call upon it. You are the Zulu Prince in the circus Beatrice has spoken about, are you not? She has told me about you. I was curious to meet a fellow African who has lived among these colonial powers.”